No Story to Tell (36 page)
The air swirled around her and beckoned her onto the dance floor, and for a hesitation she resisted before abandoning her inhibitions and running free toward that which she knew. Alighting at the edge of the freshly sown field, she listened carefully into the darkness, released her towel and crossed to center stage, the earth soft, cool flour beneath her feet. An orchestra began to moan in the soft whisper of the wind, spread like wildfire across the meadow and ignited the night. Curtsying deeply to the moon, she emptied herself at its feet and felt the music run back through her, consume her, become her as its expression carried her limbs in an orgy of pleasure, and for the first time she danced with the pure joy of life.
Her spirit would have danced for eternity but, still shackled to her body, found it could not, and eventually the two parted, and she fell heavily back to the earth. She stretched herself full under the glittering stars and smiled back at them. Tonight they had all been one. All brilliant. All stars. A wash of color spilled across the sky, shimmered stronger then faded only to reappear on the undulations of a wave. She watched in awe as the northern lights claimed the stage, illuminating it with the precious laughter of all the unborn children. Relaxing against the cool thighs of the earth, she watched them play, shades of pink and green and yellow rolling over and under and through one another in a beautifully choreographed dance.
Exhaustion pressed against her, and it was with reluctance that she began to hear the sound tapping inside her head. She forced herself to sit upright, her body half painted with soil, hair hanging down her back in long, dirt-encased shrines. Rocking gently in her tranquil peace a low, rumbling noise picked deeper into her consciousness, then verified its existence with a single headlight slicing toward her forewarning that the cyclops was returning to his lair, effectively silencing all the woodland nymphs.
As summer drifted by, Victoria found herself rebelling at her habit of waving at everyone who happened across her path during her infrequent trips to town: inherited acquaintances and childhood classmates. It became absurd to her that she should still consider someone a friend when the last thing they’d shared had been wallpaper paste in kindergarten. She hadn’t intentionally begun to snub people, but once she had, it quickly developed into an obsession, each time infusing her with a tiny injection of power. And, as might be expected, people responded poorly to her condescension and began to erect stiff barriers of resentment, some even going so far as to start feeling sorry for Bobby as he had such a difficult wife. One fellow in particular chafed at her attitude, believing himself of elevated status in the valley and therefore entitled to a certain amount of gratuitous respect.
Gavin Hackett had a gift some said. He could find water under the earth with no more than a green willow branch. And it was a gift, too. A gift turned lucrative after he realized people would pay not only for the location of water but just to follow along and be entertained in the process. Whenever Gavin Hackett set about finding water with a stick, he stirred up a good deal of dissension as well. Old-timers popped around to pay their buck and watch the ceremony, swapping tales of previous times when Gavin had found water even though the experts had claimed there was none. Some of the stories had grown so ludicrous Victoria wondered how long it would be before Gavin Hackett was credited with turning water into wine. But people swore by him. Or at him, depending on whether or not they were true believers.
Victoria found it preposterous that people treated him with either fawning admiration or reverent fear, or both. And although she did have to admit that his ability to find water with a stick was pretty strange, she’d gone from grade school to almost graduation with him, and she found it impossible to revere someone who she’d seen snort spaghetti up his nose and cough it back out his mouth. The one thing about him, though, that wasn’t in question was his ability to find the location of a new well, so Bobby had scrounged together the money and set a date for the show. Victoria had told him flat out she wasn’t hanging around while half the town came out to snoop around their place but quickly changed her mind when she considered the possibilities of whom that might bring her way.
Saturday afternoon was set for the witching, and the day had started out bad and blown itself worse. She wondered if Gavin Hackett could have gotten a more theatrical sky even if he’d special ordered. Bitchy storm clouds spat down darkly, and the growl of thunder and slashes of lightning that should have raised people’s caution, electrified their excitement instead. Victoria stood back from the window and peeked outside at the familiar strangers milling in loose groups. All the usuals were already in place, men and women splintered into separate factions as a legion of boisterous children ran up, over and around her car in a squealing game of tag, leaving muddy footprints and dents across its already muddy, dented hood. Slipping away from the window, she hid in the bedroom wishing Bobby would hurry back from town. Gavin Hackett had insisted Bobby drive into town and usher him back out to the trailer. Never mind that half the town was headed that way anyhow, and he could have easily hitched a ride with almost any one of them. He had a reputation to uphold and mixing with the mortals was not the way to do so. Bobby had complained about the unnecessary trip almost daily for the last two weeks. But when he woke up and got dressed to go that morning, she could see that he was excited and even felt a little proud to be the one delivering the guest of honor.
She started going through the closet, searching for the wrapping paper and bows to wrap Diana’s baby sweater. The months had slipped past, and the gift, now months overdue, had to be unraveled and made larger so it had a chance of still fitting. She searched her way through two closets and three drawers before the multicolored teddy bears finally peeked out from under a pillowcase. Tucking and patting limp arms across a nonexistent pale yellow chest she carefully wrapped it up and decorated it with a bright pink bow.
Pulling back the edge of the blanket that covered the bedroom window, she scanned the vehicles parked and pulling into the yard, and felt disappointment mixed with relief. Elliot hadn’t come and, while she yearned to see him, she had no desire to see a repeat of his and Bobby’s confrontation. She noticed a klatch of women over by the chicken coop where Diana stood back against the fence, clutching her baby as old women clucked and cackled and cooed, and were secretly glad their own reproductive days were long over. Victoria picked up her package, rearranged the bow and walked into the porch to put on her parka and rubber boots. She glanced back outside and noticed Rose had joined the ladies, settled Diana’s baby into her arms and was full barrel into the heart of the gossip. Chatting vivaciously, she was unaware of the blanketed shadow slowly drawing closer behind her. Foul looks were cast around as some of the ladies craned their necks to see if Doris’s husband was close at hand. Mrs. Spiller was an infringement on their day, and they were not happy to have her infiltrate their group. They began to split ranks as the old woman settled in beside them, not able to stomach the smell of her. Bent and silent, she hovered motionless for a while as if she were listening to Rose’s story. Suddenly, and with surprising speed a clawed hand sliced out at Rose’s shocked face. Momentarily stunned, the women erupted into motion. Diana leapt forward to save her baby while several of the others grabbed onto a thrashing Mrs. Spiller and pulled her backward away from Rose.
“Get that crazy old witch away from me,” Rose seethed, touching the mark on her face, which had started to bleed.
“Filthy gypsy!” Mrs. Spiller screeched, her white hair dancing wildly atop her head as she struggled to get free. “That filthy gypsy stole my treasure,” she howled. “Stole it and hid it away in her house. She did. She did. I saw her last night through the window. I know where it is. I know. I’ll get it. I will—”
The old woman was furious. Eyes flashing like pistol shots, she was spitting mad and more alive than Victoria had ever seen her. Slivering the trailer door open, she poked her head out to get a better view, inadvertently diverting Mrs. Spiller’s attention her way.
“And that one! She stole my painting!”
Victoria’s mouth gasped open as she tucked her head back inside the porch, banging the door shut behind her. Standing beside the window, she slid it open and listened intently to the confusion of conversations swirling around Mrs. Spiller.
“What painting? What’s she talking about now?”
“Don’t be stupid. There is no painting. She’s just making it up like everything else.”
“I’m not!” the old woman screeched hysterically. “She stole it out of my mop room!”
“Agnes! Don’t be silly.” Doris tried desperately to bring some sanity to the situation. “You haven’t cleaned the hotel for over forty years now. Your mind’s just getting you all jumbled up again.”
Victoria leaned heavily against the wall. So that explained it. Mrs. Spiller must still have keys from back in the days when she used to clean the hotel. She breathed a massive sigh of relief. Perfect. The old woman’s mind was so addled that no one gave any credence to a thing she had to say.
Apparently Doris’s husband had been alerted by the commotion and was now hurrying over in his shuffling gait to attend to things. Rose redirected her anger toward him, and he ducked his head low as he made his way past her.
“This is beyond ridiculous. Crazy thing snuck up and attacked me from behind. And I was holding Diana’s baby! You’re just damn lucky I didn’t drop it. It’s past bloody time you locked her up before someone really gets hurt.”
An approving murmur slipped through the crowd as he mumbled worn apologies. Gathering up his sister-in-law, he directed her toward the car where Doris already sat waiting in stony silence, her gaze leveled off across the fields. What could he say? He agreed with the crowd, but in the end it was Doris who warmed his bed at night.
The eyes of the crowd followed their departure down the driveway, indignant conversations jumping up all around. Concerned appraisals were made of Rose’s face. It was a small wound surely. But blood had been drawn. Who knew what the old woman was growing capable of? Dementia had been eroding her mind for years. What was stopping her from becoming increasingly violent? And this time there had been a baby involved. Mrs. Lyncroft had been standing the closest, and she thought she was almost sure Mrs. Spiller had been eyeing up the child before she’d struck. Clearly something would have to be done. They were good citizens and had been patient. But this was too much. This would have to end.
In the distance, Victoria could see Bobby’s truck barreling down the road, barely keeping pace with itself. A few heads turned, then more and she began to feel a shift in the crowd’s energy. She knew once Gavin Hackett arrived he’d wrap the crowd’s attention around himself, and she could slip unnoticed from the trailer. As the truck slowed to turn into the driveway, the intensity of suppressed excitement grew louder in the circles of conversation, and the children’s squeals turned to shrieks as they started to fight.
Bobby pulled up importantly, splashing through mud puddles and spraying several people before he jerked to a stop, banged his door open and swung himself onto the ground. Although everyone had a watchful eye on his mood, no one had sacrificed a Saturday afternoon to see Bobby perform. They’d come to see the divine deliverer: every eye was fixated on the dark form hunched in the passenger seat, each one eager to be the first to spot any new additions to the act. Feeling a bit cheated, Bobby hesitated briefly then strode over and flung Gavin Hackett’s door open with a dramatic flair.
And the divine deliverer was not one to disappoint. Flying abruptly from the truck, he sent Bobby stumbling backward, drawing a hysterical scream, upon which appeared from the back of the truck the grubby form of recently awakened Billy Bassman. The stage set and the show ready to roll, arguments began breaking out as to whether army boots had in fact made their debut at Potter’s witching, and whether the rabbit’s foot dangling from his hat had indeed been a gift from an authentic Indian medicine man. Always a showman, Gavin whirled like a dervish through the crowd, his long black trench coat billowing out behind him like a prehistoric bird. Pulling a black felt cowboy hat low over shifty eyes, he stuck a fat cigar in his mouth but did not light it. Smoke made him sick. Mumbling something unintelligible, he began to stroke the odd assortment of necklaces hanging around his neck. It was the necklaces that had gotten him into trouble. Alert churchgoers had immediately reported them back to the clergy and soon there had been suspicion that the devil himself had somehow gotten involved. Which of course had added greatly to Gavin Hackett’s fame as well as his fortunes. Overnight it spread through the valley that if you needed a fortune told or a message sent to the other side, Gavin Hackett was the man for the job.
Determining all fees had been paid in full, he raised a slow, ring-encrusted hand into the air. He spoke not one word, but the conversations around him crumbled, then collapsed. Reaching into a scarlet velvet case, he withdrew three willow sticks grown in the shape of a
Y.
Raising them to his face, he fluttered his eyes as he first smelled, then tasted each one. Suddenly dropping two, he pressed the other one to his ear, appeared to listen then rocked himself into a high-pitched wail before snapping his arms out in front of him, fists gripping tightly as the willow appeared to drag him out across the field.
The crowd all but ran to keep up as it streamed behind him. Victoria scoffed as she watched them race off like a pack of hounds after a fox. Wondering if Gavin still snorted spaghetti up his nose, she laughed out loud then stopped abruptly as she remembered she hadn’t seen Billy Bassman get out of the truck or join the crowd. Quietly she made her way as close as necessary to the truck and peered over the side of the box. Sure enough, there he lay sprawled out like a dead dog, passed out cold. A shiver crawled over her, and she walked off quickly toward the field, zipping her parka in an attempt to keep herself warm.
